


Maybe It's Cause I'm Wearing Your Cologne

by MistahJay (CassLikesFic)



Series: Gotham's Finest [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cisswap, Crying, Edging, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Femdom, Femme!Joker, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderswap, Masc!HarleyQuinn, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Power Dynamics, Smoking, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 21:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/MistahJay
Summary: After blowing Quinn in the glaring yellow light of the dressing room, Joker touches up her makeup with artistic precision. She then turns to Quinn, brush in hand, with the barest twitch of an eyebrow.





	Maybe It's Cause I'm Wearing Your Cologne

**Author's Note:**

> This has pretty much nothing to do with any specific comic or movie, I just thought it was a fun idea, so I took it and ran with it. This is garbage and I am a possum. If you like weird power dynamics, pretty boys crying, and seeing things flipped on their head, this might be the fic for you.

After blowing Quinn in the glaring yellow light of the dressing room, Joker touches up her makeup with artistic precision. She then turns to Quinn, brush in hand, with the barest twitch of an eyebrow.

Joker likes using her mouth on Quinn, especially in a chair, especially where it's well lit and she can see every thought in the man's skull. Joker likes watching Quinn's resolve crumble under slow licks and reassuring touches. She loves knowing Quinn doesn't view it as a debasing, submissive act he's doing to Joker. It's something dangerous and possibly terrible, the threat of teeth and that lean, strong jawline. It's something that Joker does to him. It's a kind of torture that Quinn says yes to again, and again, and again.

Joker likes hearing Quinn say yes.

She likes making Quinn talk, because the officer tries so hard to keep things back. Everyone talks when you torture them. Everyone talks when they nudge against the back of your throat and whimper at the barest graze of teeth.

Quinn shudders and grips the arms of the chair so tightly the old cranberry colored naugahyde is scarred with his fingernails. He whispers _ please _like a prayer he doesn't think God will bother to answer. He minds his manners and doesn't whine when Joker decides she's done. Joker likes the way Quinn will sit there trembling from head to toe until she tells him to pull his pants back up. She likes the way Quinn's shoulders shake in silent motions that could be stifled laughter or quiet sobs. Quinn now has a uniform he only wears for Joker, because the inside of the pants were stained with slick that won't wash out. There's ground in greasepaint all over the collar and thighs. It smells of Joker's cigarettes and her cologne. It looks like a bad parody of his neat officer's dress.

Joker knows how thinly spread and underpaid Gotham's police force truly is. She knows that Quinn only had two uniforms and no money to replace the one he's sacrificing to Joker. Joker knows Quinn doesn't have a family waiting for him. He has a shitty sixth floor walkup studio that no one notices him come home to or leave from in any state. She knows Quinn would put a bullet between the mayor's eyes if it would save a thousand people. Joker knows Quinn is afraid no one sees her. Joker knows Quinn is afraid she's a delusion that he invented for his own comfort.

Joker likes that touching her is a privilege Quinn still hasn't earned, six months later. Quinn has no idea what she looks like under her clothes, beneath the greasepaint. Quinn doesn't know the shape of Joker's cock, except how it slots inside of him. Quinn doesn't know her name.

Sometimes, rarely, Joker fucks him. Always slow, deep, tender like a lover. Quinn takes to it like worship, like communion with the taste of wine lingering in the back of your throat pretending it's blood. It's the perfect killing joke, Quinn crying when he comes in her arms. Clinging to Joker like his own personal savior is the flawlessly executed punchline. Joker tortures Quinn and soothes him. Quinn is hungry for both.

Kissing is something that Joker does to Quinn as well, possessively leaving smears of paint over his lips and cheeks. Sometimes she presses the sole of her foot to the strained front of Quinn's pants and listens to him make helpless choked sounds until he comes. One more thing slowly ruining that freshly laundered uniform. Sometimes she makes him apologize afterwards, dissolving into helpless tears so that Joker can croon to him, petting his sweat damp hair. Sometimes she lets him shake and sends him home aching.

Joker knows Quinn is here of his own volition. Early, eager, saying yes and please and thank you. By now Quinn knows he's not being summoned, he's being invited, and the look on Quinn's face when he waits in the doorway tells Joker he's here of his own free will. She knows what loneliness and isolation looks like. She understands the desperate desire for a friendly touch, a gentle word. She knows that kindness and neglect, properly timed and withheld can be more devastating than the worst beating.

Quinn waits in that armchair, a fine trembling in his thighs. Exposed and smeared with paint, waiting to be dismissed or played with further. Joker rubs her fingers together idly in the air around the brush, hand dangling palm down, wrist loose. The sound makes Quinn's hips jerk, anticipating touch he won't get.

"Gotham's finest." Joker says almost tenderly, setting the brush down. She lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, eyes narrowing at the cop and against the smoke. She feels generous and cruel tonight. She savors the words before she lets the smile drop from her face, snapping, "Get out, Harley."

"Thank you, Mister J." Quinn says with quiet but heartfelt sincerity, struggling to button his fly against his straining erection. Joker knows that Quinn will be there the next time. Saying yes again and again.

Quinn always arrives smelling like laundry detergent and cheap yellow soap and mint. He always leaves smelling like smoke and paint and Joker's cologne. Desperation, loneliness, and need are consistent throughout.

Joker smiles to herself and puts her bare feet up on the vanity counter. She laughs, and laughs, and laughs as Quinn closes the door quietly behind him on the way out.


End file.
